


Dark Souls Drabbles

by CrownlessAgain



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Monsters, Shameless Smut, Why Did I Write This?, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownlessAgain/pseuds/CrownlessAgain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do the denizens of Lordan do to pass the time in a dark and lonely world? Why, engage in some jolly cooperation of course! A collection of smutty ficlets, some fluffy, some rough, some utterly nonsensical. Only M/M pairings for now, but others might come in later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solaire

Solaire could get used to Anor Londo.

The towers with their soaring buttresses, the great halls and empty chapels, the rooms that stand just as they had been on the day their inhabitants fled, all fill him with a sense of sweet longing, like the memory of an old lover. The sun itself seems sad here.

Some hidden part of him remembers this city. Somewhere, deep inside, he knows that _this_ is who he is; that here lies the key to everything he lost when he turned Undead, or perhaps even long before that. And yet as he wanders along those golden walkways with his old friends the sun and his sword, he thinks only of the path he has chosen for himself; the circles a moth has to fly before it reaches the candle.

But, as the day draws to a close - of course, days in Anor Londo never do, but one ought to maintain a sense of normality in even the direst of circumstances - and Solaire sits and watches flames dancing over human bones, he is given a welcome respite from such thoughts by the arrival of an old friend.

_The Undead_. The poor bastard can't remember his own name, so Solaire has no choice but to call him that. He's looking better by the day though - dressed in plate and sumptuous blue cloth, with a helmet that conveniently hides his face, he's a far cry from the scruffy Hollow that had approached Solaire with such heart-breaking caution on the day of their first meeting.

Solaire turns to greet him, smiling under his helmet, and the Undead rewards him with a friendly wave and joins him at the bonfire.

He's a man of few words, that Undead. He speaks only to encourage Solaire to do so, listening raptly to every remark the knight makes, and refusing to answer when Solaire asks him about himself. Solaire can tell that his inability to remember shames him, so he never pushes the topic. All the same, watching the Undead dance around a bell tower gargoyle during one of their many shared battles, or severing the tail of a dragon in a few well-placed strikes, he's consumed by curiosity about this man; about whatever life he has left behind.

He wonders whether it's right to get so much excitement out of placing a summoning sign.

"You really are fond of chatting with me, aren't you?" he asks absently. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you have feelings for me!"

_Oh, Lords, here we go._

Solaire quickly thanks every god in turn that the Undead has chosen to wear a helmet, because surely the expression on his face would have been too much for mortal flesh to bear. Well, this is it. The Undead is going to get up and leave, hell, he'll probably pull out his sword, and nobody will be able to say they blame him --

\--but he just sits there, warming his hands by the fire, his helmeted face turned expressionlessly towards Solaire.

"Oh, dear me! Pretend you didn't hear that!"

Solaire forces out a laugh.

The Undead stares.

Solaire stares back.

His hand bumps against something cool and smooth, and just like that, he remembers what he came here to do, and he's saved.

"Look what I found in one of the chambers," he says, holding up the bottle so that the dark liquid inside sloshes around. "Would you have believed you'd ever see wine again? It's a little... _mature_ for my tastes, but I don't seem to be dead yet." Laughing nervously, he holds the bottle out to his companion. "Go on, have some. The best way to enjoy a good thing is to share it with friends, right?"

In place of a reply, the Undead takes off his helm. For the first time since their meeting, his skin is smooth and unblemished, his eyes green instead of dark and dead. He takes the bottle, uncorks it, sniffs cautiously, then lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. And, also for the first time, he smiles.

 

"You know," the Undead says an hour later, one arm thrown carelessly over Solaire's shoulders, the other clutching the almost empty bottle, "I quite like you without the helmet."

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes sparkle lazily, and the wine has worked miracles to loosen his tongue. He's not bad looking with a few Humanities inside him, Solaire realises. In fact, his delicate features remind Solaire of an Astora noble - which is odd, because he cannot remember what any Astora nobles looked like anymore. He wonders briefly why exactly he chose to compare the Undead with an Astora noble, then decides on a more productive train of thought.

"You're not too bad yourself," he says, giving his companion's shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"So, do you have a wife back in Astora?" The Undead's gaze lingers over Solaire's golden hair and blue eyes, and he smiles to himself like a cat with a bowl of cream. "Or a lover? I'm sure many maidens have competed for that title."

The knight shakes his head. "Even if I did, I don't recall. Isn't it odd, not being able to remember? All we can do here is keep moving forward. Don't know about you, but I'd say it's quite liberating."

" _Liberating_?" The Undead is positively beaming by now, and Solaire begins to wonder if it isn't an appropriate time to start feeling uncomfortable. "Is that what you meant when you asked if I had feelings for you?"

_Well,_ of course _it isn't over._

"Oh, no, I was just making conversation. A little poorly-phrased friendly banter. I really do say the most foolish things sometimes, which is probably the reason why--"

The Undead kisses him.

Solaire has but a moment to taste the faint traces of wine; to write the softness of the other man's lips across his memory and understand that yes, _this is happening,_ before the Undead pulls away as though stung, his chest heaving, his eyes brimming with fear.

" _Gods_ ," he whispers. "I'm sorry, _I'm so sorry_ \--"

_It's the wine,_ Solaire tells himself desperately as he silences the Undead with another kiss.

He can feel the Undead trembling against him, hands braced as though to push him away, but his skin is so warm; so _real_ , and he cannot bear the thought of letting this end... and then the Undead is kissing him back, his lips hot against Solaire's own, his fingers threading through Solaire's hair and ruining his ponytail, his body strangely pliant despite the armor covering it, and _Gods, it's been such a long time--_

"I should think," breathes the Undead as he pulls away, "that that answers your question."

There is hunger in the next kiss; a symphony of tongue and teeth drowns out all of Solaire's thoughts, leaving him with only the knowledge that this feels good; this feels _right_. When he feels the Undead's hands on the fastenings of his mail shirt, he reciprocates, and suddenly they are on the floor, skin to skin, the heat from the bonfire nothing compared to the warmth of another living human being. The Undead is surprisingly slender without his armor, almost feminine, and a scar here and there only serves to compliment his beauty. Solaire's hands travel over his shoulders, down to his chest and along his back, tracing the contours of bones and muscles, every shudder and every hitch in his breath noted somewhere in the back of the knight's mind, until the Undead breaks the kiss and buries his face in Solaire's neck, rendering him boneless and brainless as he sucks and bites on the pale skin there.

"I want you," the Undead whispers. "By the Lords, I want you..."

"It's not safe here," mutters Solaire in a moment of lucidity. "There should be more Hollows outside by now. We'll be ambushed, or--"

"Then we'll kill them all over again. _Please._ For us both."

The knight laughs nervously, desperately trying to ignore the way that "please" has traveled straight to his groin.

"Well, another thing, we _are_ both men. Believe me when I say that I'm not quite sure how this is going to work..."

The look on the Undead's face tells Solaire that he's _anything but_ unsure. In fact, the implications of that look seem to go far beyond that, and Solaire would probably have found them quite unnerving under any circumstances that didn't involve him half-naked with the Undead on top of him.

But he doesn't have to endure that look for long, because in place of a reply, the Undead resumes kissing his neck, nibbling that one spot that sends fire through his skin, and suddenly there are deft fingers tugging at the laces of his breeches.

"Oh,  _yes,"_ Solaire moans as the Undead's hands draw him from his smallclothes. "By the Sun,  _yes_..."

He's trembling and slick with arousal by the time the Undead frees himself from his breeches, and when the Undead presses himself shamelessly against him and takes them both in hand, it takes all the resolve he possesses to stop himself from crying out. And then the Undead is rocking against him, sweat beading on his fair skin, eyes dropped shut in ecstasy, murmuring "Solaire, oh Gods, _Solaire_..." like it's the only word he knows, his hand working faster and faster between their entwined forms, bringing them higher and higher as Solaire's nails dig into his back and bruise him, but Solaire does not care because he knows that if he doesn't hold on to something he'll pass out, he'll--  _Oh, Gods...!_

Solaire arches his back and comes, drowning a cry in the crook of the Undead's neck as the smaller man shudders apart against him, his release mingling with Solaire's. They cling together with bruising strength for minutes that seem like hours, and when they roll apart, sticky and sated, all Solaire can do is laugh breathlessly.

"Did we really just--?"

The Undead only stares at the knight, watching the light of the bonfire flickering across the pale skin of his chest, dressing him in fire and gold. He nods, his face lit up with the purest happiness he's felt in years.

They fall asleep in each other's arms, as human bones burn in a city built for fallen gods. 

 


	2. Lautrec

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains non-con. If that's not your thing, please tune out for this one.

When Lautrec sees his captor for the first time, he almost laughs.

First at just how ridiculous that grinning old man with his long black robe looks, and then at himself, for letting himself be bested by that grinning old man with his long black robe.

"I am Oswald, a Pardoner of the Goddess Velka." The man's voice carries that sick fatherliness of a deranged preacher. "And you are a sinner. One who has lied, blasphemed, stolen and murdered his way through the world."

"I am Lautrec, a knight of Carim, the beloved of the Great Goddess Fina," Lautrec growls. "You will use that name, if you know what's good for you."

The Pardoner only laughs, and tugs his robe aside to reveal a somewhat menacing-looking whip tucked into his belt. 

"Now that we've exhausted the formalities, it is time for your punishment--"

This old fool hasn't learned that Lautrec can move fast even when his wrists are shackled together. He leaps, fists drawn back, aiming at the patch of pale skin just under Oswald's helmet --

\--and finds himself sprawled on the floor, every muscle and bone in his body aching fit to break, as the the Pardoner kneels over him and passes a chain between his wrists, securing one end to a ring in the wall.

"Oh ho! You've got sport!" he laughs as he pulls the knight to his feet. "I like that, Sinner!" 

_Ah, shit. A cleric._

Something tells Lautrec that he damn right should've known.

"Well then, shall we see what the Great Goddess Fina has blessed you with?"

Oswald almost croons with delight as he takes off Lautrec's helmet and runs his fingers through the knight's long dark hair, tugging just enough to cause pain. When Oswald's hands begin working on his pauldrons and breastplate, fear stirs in Lautrec's belly. He knows them, these cleric types. Some of the most evil men he's ever met have been clerics, driven mad with love for a god who never answered and taken with satisfying their wordly desires in dark and twisted ways...

The leather of Oswald's gloves is soft and clammy against Lautrec's skin as the old man runs his hands over the knight's shoulders and down his back, handling him like a buyer examining a horse at the market, and when his hands move back upward to caress his chest and slide along the toned plane of his stomach, he shudders in disgust, every muscle taunt as a bowstring.

"What lovely, smooth skin..." Oswald whispers, his breath suddenly hot against Lautrec's ear, stinging him like lightning. "'Tis almost a shame to mar it." His hands slip down the curve of the knight's lower back, fumbling at his cuisses and tugging his breeches insistently downwards...

"That's as far as you'll go, you bastard!"

Lautrec twists violently, aiming a kick at Oswald's groin, and misses. The next thing he knows is a leather-clad fist smashing into his face, and the world buzzes around him in flashes of blinding light as he sags against his bonds, his mouth full of copper. He watches the blood dripping from his chin, forming perfect red circles on the filthy floor, as Oswald yanks his breeches down to his knees.

"You do not deserve a man's punishment, oh _no_ ," the Pardoner coos to him, hands kneading the flesh of his buttocks as he stifles a gasp of horror between broken teeth. "You're a _child_ , playing with things you don't understand. I pray that you might understand better once I've whipped that sweet little arse raw."

" _Fuck... you..."_

"What a pretty mouth you have." Oswald's fingers caress his lips in a horrible parody of a lover's, smearing blood across his cheek. "It would be a disservice to your Fina if I were forced to make it less pretty, don't you think?"

"Just do it," Lautrec whispers. "Finish it, _madman_."

As Oswald purrs with laughter, Lautrec fixes his gaze on the wall. He stares at the pattern of cracks running through the stone as he hears the whip being taken out, and tracks the path of a solitary ant as its tip caresses his bare flesh. He gulps down one final breath and grits his teeth as the whip whistles and cracks above him.

The pain comes after what feels like minutes.

Lautrec gasps and writhes against his bonds, grimacing in pain and forcing himself to remain focused on that damn ant through the blackness that wells up in the corners of his eyes. Already the whip is raised for another blow, and Oswald _laughs_ as it strikes Lautrec in _exactly the same damn place_ , and this time there's blood dripping down his legs, and to his immeasurable horror, the Pardoner presses a finger to one of the red rivulets and _oh Gods, could he really have_ licked _it?_

On the sixth blow, he screams.

"Good, _good,_ " Oswald murmurs, his free hand stroking the small of Lautrec's back, his voice almost kind. "Squeal some more, Sinner. There's no shame in it, after all you've done."

"Just finish it," Lautrec gasps.

After the tenth blow, he loses count.

Trembling like a leaf, no longer bothering to stifle his screams, not caring how much satisfaction it brings his tormentor, he wonders dimly how his legs are still holding him up. After there's barely a white patch of skin remaining on his ass, Oswald moves on to his thighs, and with every crack of the whip, Lautrec has to force himself to remain standing. Of course, he stays away from his back. That would simply be too _honourable_ for the old bastard...

Just as the blackness wells up and threatens to swallow him, Lautrec hears the whip clattering to the floor.

"You did well, Sinner." Again, that kindly voice that makes Lautrec want to claw the Pardoner's eyes out. "I'm almost _impressed._ "

"Let me go," Lautrec pants. "Please."

"Oh, so we've gone from _fuck you_ to _please_ , have we now?" Lautrec gasps in pain as Oswald strokes his ass, dipping his fingers into the open weals and pressing until he cries out. "You're a fast learner. Would you like a little reward for your cooperation, _hmm_?"

"I don't want your-- _aargh!_ "

The Pardoner's hand is somewhere where no-one has _ever_ touched him before. He freezes, his mind balking at the mere thought of this happening, even though, Fina have mercy, those fingers are clearly pushing _inside_ him, their slickness clearly caused by blood, _his_ blood...

"Keep struggling..." Oswald's voice is thick with lust as he thrusts two fingers inside his prisoner, savoring the desperate clench of his muscles. "I like it when you squirm..."

"I'll _kill_ you," Lautrec whispers. "I'll tear your fucking heart out."

He falls silent as the Pardoner starts pumping his fingers in and out.

Nobody has _ever_ dared to humiliate Lautrec of Carim like this, he thinks as Oswald rubs nerve endings he'd never even imagined existed. He'll endure this for just a little longer, and then when the time is right, he'll put this sick _thing_ out of its misery-- and suddenly those fingers are curling inside him, pressing against something that sends white lightning through his body, and he has no time to stifle the pleasured moan that bursts from his throat. He's mortified to realize that he's hard, and with his nakedness there's no way to hide it other than to squeeze his legs together desperately - which only encourages Oswald to finger him harder and faster, hitting that spot over and over until his limbs are jelly and his cock is practically dripping with arousal.

"Ah, my pretty Sinner, so wet and willing already!" Oswald exclaims in delight. "You've put me in quite a good mood today. Shall we see how quickly I can make you come?"

"I'll feed you to your bitch goddess' crows," Lautrec gasps. "I'll--"

Oswald pulls his fingers out and _spanks_ him, making the battered flesh of his ass jiggle.

"That was unwise. And to think that you'd almost convinced me to be _gentle_..."

The Pardoner's free hand curls around his neck and squeezes, and in the same instant, something  _much_ larger than two fingers thrusts inside him.

He can't breathe. He's said the most idiotic thing he could've said in that situation, and now he's going to die. The thought mills about his brain as Oswald's hand digs into his windpipe, squeezing until he's sure that it's going to collapse. He barely notices the searing pain in his lower body as Oswald drives his cock into him again and again with quick needy gasps, thrusting against torn and bruised flesh and making it ache and bleed anew. When Oswald orders him to spread his legs further apart,  _whore_ , he obeys -- anything to stop the advance of that pounding blackness; to snatch just one more breath from between crushing fingers! He can hear the Pardoner's voice, rasping with desire, telling him how hot and tight he is; asking him over and over if he likes being  _fucked_ in his tight little  _hole;_ telling him to scream and struggle and sate his dark hunger, his thrusts growing rougher as he nears his climax, every one of them now hitting that place deep inside Lautrec's body which he'd stimulated with his fingers, and then he's shaking and calling out to Velka as he spends himself inside his prisoner, releasing his vice-like grip on Lautrec's throat for just a moment --

\-- and between the pain and blinding pleasure, between the dark pounding in his ears and the sweet rush of air into his lungs, Lautrec's poor over-stimulated body can take no more, and his legs buckle as he comes. 

 

"My, my," Oswald scolds, holding one hand up to his exhausted captive's face, "Look what a mess you've made!"

Through his post-orgasmic haze, Lautrec sees the white stains covering the black leather of the glove, and forgets to feel disgusted.

"Clean it," Oswald orders. "Use your tongue."

Disobedience barely crosses his mind as he begins to lick, taking Oswald's fingers into his mouth and tasting himself on them, the bitter-salt of his own climax heavy on his tongue.  _It's all over_ , he thinks numbly.  _I can rest now. I can plan my escape. I can..._

Bugger it. The thought's too complicated for him right now.

"Good little Sinner." The lock of his shackles clinks, and he's finally free to collapse to the ground and lie there in a sore, well-fucked heap. "I've decided that I quite like your tongue. I think I'll use it for something a little more  _interesting_ next time, hmm?"

Lautrec lies there, doing nothing but breathing, for a long time after Oswald's gone. Then he crawls to the corner where the Pardoner has charitably left his armor and dresses himself with slow deliberation, his breastplate feeling as good against his skin as if the female arms wrought on it had been real. It hurts to sit, but he does it anyway, feeling the strength flow back into his body, hour after hour, as he wonders how the hell he'd let it all come to this.

That is where the Chosen Undead finds him, and quickly joins the ranks of those who have committed an act of poor judgement regarding Lautrec of Carim.

 


	3. Four Kings

The Abyss is warm and clammy against his skin.

As the Undead makes his way through endless blackness he feels it pulse against him, like the mouth of some ancient beast awakening from its slumber, opening to devour and slinking back in fear again and again.

Somewhere in the distance, a pale blur floats out of the darkness. The Undead draws his catalyst, whispers the words to turn himself near ethereal, and creeps closer.

As he approaches, strange, twisted forms unfold before his eyes. Silver shards, like crumpled old bark, extend into limbs and torsos. Pale eyes stare out of inhumanly beautiful faces, crowned with spines and horns.

The Four Kings of New Londo, keepers of the Soul of Lord Gwyn himself.

_Well, this should be interesting._

The fingers of the Undead curl around his catalyst. It's odd, that these creatures haven't noticed him yet. He would've thought that such lucky breaks were alien to this damned world. What's even more odd is that, on closer inspection, they appear to be  _fighting_ each other. Strange spiked limbs flail and entwine, and he can hear soft sharp gasps, like gusts of wind in the trees. One of the Kings appears to have wrestled another to the ground (if the concept of "ground" isn't utterly useless in the Abyss), and the remaining two are locked in combat, clawing and biting. The Undead continues his advance, wondering whether Lordan has finally finished its much-anticipated descent into madness...

_Oh,_   _no._

_Oh,_ hell  _no._

They aren't fighting.

The King on his back hasn't found himself in that position unwillingly, judging by how his legs are wrapped around the waist of the one kneeling over him, the bare skin of his thighs paler and smoother than the warped abyssal armor covering them. In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself very much indeed as he rolls his hips against his companion's, his back curving in an elegant arch, his head thrown back with an expression of unearthly ecstasy on his beautiful silver features.

The other two aren't exactly engaging in a show of animosity either. The one closest to the Undead trembles while the supine one uses his hand to pleasure him, his eyes glowingwith lust from under a fall of ghostly white hair as another grinds himself against his back, caressing what little humanoid skin remains on his chest and stomach, and nibbling his neck with small sharp teeth...

The sight is ridiculous, and it has no right to be arousing. Or at least that is what the Undead tells himself as he feels the stirring in his breeches, and absently brings his hand down to stroke himself through the thin fabric. Oh dear, he's rock hard. Fighting in this state won't be easy, but at least his enemy will be suffering from sexual exhaustion by the time the "fighting" part actually comes around --

He freezes like a rabbit under a spotlight as four pairs of eyes bore into him.

The King who was thrusting so happily between another's legs just a moment ago pulls out, revealing a surprisingly humanoid length glistening obscenely with his and the other's fluids. His lover whimpers and covers his naked body with armored hands, and the other two pause in their adoration of each other's necks and scowl.

_Ah, shit._

Oh, but they're  _angry_ now. Being caught playing the peeping Tom on a human orgy is one thing, but with demonic royalty it's a different matter altogether. As silver limbs twist towards him, he curses his luck, certainly not for the first or the last time on his journey...

He braces himself for pain, only to feel clawed hands closing gently around his wrists.

As he stares helplessly into its face, the creature  _smiles_  at him in a way that is almost coquettish, and tugs him towards the others with surprising gentleness, like a youth leading a shy lady onto the dance floor.

_So they're_ friendly.

The Undead has learned better than to question a change of luck, no matter how impossible. So he allows himself to be led, strategies spinning through his brain. He cannot hope to fight all four of them at once, but then again, the worst they can do is kill him, and in that case he will simply return, and this time he won't be merciful, no matter what kind of show they put on for him...

...only there's suspiciously little attacking to be done. The other three Kings are now wearing the same odd little smiles, as though sharing a joke only they know. He can't help but notice that the one on his back has dropped his arms to his sides and spread his legs wantonly, revealing every inch of smooth skin on his body.  

And then they're upon him.

Gnarled hands caress his face and body, tugging at the fastenings of his robes. He feels his catalyst dropping from his back as a body pulsing with the tainted warmth of the Abyss presses flush against him, and a serpentine tongue slips into his mouth. Terror runs down his spine, freezing him in place, but between that nimble tongue and the hands caressing him, creeping insistently down into his breeches, he quickly forgets to feel it. Yes, it's been a long time, and his body is aching for this, and he would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation were his mouth not occupied with kissing his demonic captors. 

By the time they release him and lead him to the fourth King, who's writhing on his back like a seasoned whore by now with his arousal leaking silvery fluid onto his stomach, the Undead has finished entertaining his last doubts about this. And when he sheathes himself with one thrust inside that warm, willing body, he almost comes right there and then.

_Gods,_ he's missed this.

For such a large creature, the King is shockingly tight, and when he starts to move, rocking his hips back and forth into that infernal heat, he feels muscles he's never felt before clenching and pulsing around him. His abyssal lover gasps in pleasure, his eyes dropping shut, his hands forming fists, his chest heaving like spilled quicksilver. There's shame on his face, the Undead is amused to discover; shame, perhaps, at having a crude mortal creature debasing him before his fellows, but when the Undead touches his neglected member tentatively, stroking the silky skin with his fingertips and rubbing them in the moisture that gathers at his slit, the look of shame turns to sweet unbridled ecstasy and the gasps turn into loud cries. 

The other two Kings aren't standing idle either, he notices - aroused by the sight of their companion's pleasure, one drops to his knees and takes the other into his mouth. The Undead watches as his lips, which would have looked right on the prettiest maiden, distend around the other's manhood, and as he bobs his head up and down while his lover moans and grasps his hair and his horns in turn, the Undead suddenly remembers that the fourth King is unaccounted for, and his worst suspicions are confirmed when something large and damp pushes against him  _down there_ \--  _Aaah!_

Pain explodes through his lower body as the fourth King thrusts inside him, and although he's no stranger to this kind of thing - pain of course, not demonic lovemaking - tears spring to his eyes. The creature he's been fucking looks up at him in a mixture of confusion and pity, but the one behind him is stroking his back and chest with those same oddly gentle hands, and suddenly there's a nimble tongue at his neck, and he's  _moving_ , and the pain fades away in a tide of monstrous pleasure. The submissive King almost screams as the Undead's hand acquires a will of his own and begins to pump him up and down, while the one at the back fucks him  _through_ the Undead, pushing him in and out with every thrust of his hips, and the other two gasp and tumble to the ground together, thrusting against each other. It's all too much; the mixture of soft skin and armor and silver writhing forms caresses the Undead's every sense until he spends himself inside the tainted creature with a loud cry, and the one behind him growls and bites down on his shoulder and follows suit.

They fall apart in an absurd tangle of limbs, and as reason returns to him with painful slowness, the Undead begins to take in what just happened. He's got all sorts of corrupted fluids on him, inside him, and his own seed is dribbling down one abyssal being's thigh, dissolving in the inky blackness. The Four Kings seem to have come to a similar realization, clambering to their feet as gnarled armor grows from their skin, covering their nakedness. They stare at each other, then at him, with the eyes of timid forest animals.

And just like that, they fade back into the Abyss, leaving only a smoldering bonfire in their wake. 

The Undead sighs, and begins the impossible task of straightening his clothes and recovering his weapons. He knows that if he, Gods forbid, starts to  _think_ about what happened, he'll most likely go mad.

If anyone asks, the Four Kings are _dead_. 


End file.
